


Angel Mine

by Rothelena



Category: The Mentalist
Genre: Angst, F/M, Sexual Content, Suicidal Thoughts, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-15
Updated: 2012-08-15
Packaged: 2017-11-12 04:52:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/486930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rothelena/pseuds/Rothelena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After all the dragons are slayed, they still have to move on...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Battlefields

Senior Special Agent Teresa Lisbon watches the thin band of blood which forms around her wrists and tries to feel every single scratch of pain.

Her flesh feels raw, the ache a fiery sensation burning through her veins. It’s almost comforting when her cramping legs are so cold, icy concrete biting into her skin like a million teeth, teeth of sharks, dragons, monsters born from nightmares.

But she can’t lose her mind. It is paramount that she keeps her sanity, so she fights, relentless, focused, with her eyes wide open.

She tries not to think about the world outside her cage, to forget that there has been a different existence. She silences the dreams, the hope, everything that distracts her from keeping her shit together.

Instead, she mimics every trick she has ever seen Patrick Jane use: breathing. Counting one when she inhales. Two when she exhales. Nothing matters but the fluttering breath in her lungs. Scratching at the dry walls of her bronchia.

She works on her memory palace, trying to file down every inch of the cold ground beneath her, the gloomy basement around her. The radiator she is chained to. She has some leeway, enough so that she can rub her nose or her forehead. She can touch the rough surface of the chilly heater, imperfectly painted metal, rusted in places, unused for years. She learns its texture, unforgiving hardness, sharp ridges.

Her hands have started to tremble, and she doesn’t like it at all. Her lip is split, she tastes the coppery tang of her own blood.

She doesn’t fear Red John’s return, for looking at him gives her something to hate. It is a good thing, feels harsh and alive, she concentrates on it while he hurts her, drags the tip of a knife down her skin. She never takes her eyes from him while the blood runs down her arms, and it delights her when it unnerves him.

He is good. He’s always been- she has never guessed that he could be the serial killer they were hunting all the time, and obviously Jane hadn’t, either.

Jane.

No, she shouldn’t think about him now. Somehow, she doesn’t want him in her head while Red John tortures her, Jane is hers, and she won’t do anything that will make the killer aware of her feelings for him.

So she tries to perfect her memory palace instead. Water spot in the corner. Queen of hearts. Her breathing is quiet and calm, and she thinks that maybe she should try to get some sleep without succumbing to hopeful dreams, when the door creaks open.

Metal doors, as rusty as the derelict decay around her.

And suddenly, Red John is right in front of her.

He’s always coming close, although she can move her arms, even her hands a bit. She never does. She’s as meek as a little lamb, but she simply turns off his words in his mind. Muting his voice. The movements of his mouth are disgusting, she feels bile rising in her throat. She knows every line on his face by now. She hates him so much that for the first time she can imagine killing as a pleasure.

Jane’s face rises in her mind like a fiery phoenix. She blocks the picture. Her mind has become a weapon, her consultant would be so proud of her.

Red John’s ranting is still silent, she’s becoming better and better at this. He underestimates her, and she feels a secret smile deep inside of her, blossoming like a flower. Maybe she will die. But maybe he won’t win.

Her lips are so dry, she feels the skin rip, more blood flowing onto her tongue.

She drinks the water he gives her. Feels the pain when he cuts her arms. Tracing it. Every second. She wants to be there for her own torture, doesn’t want to miss anything that could glue her to reality. She is still human. He hasn’t defeated her yet.

He gives her drugs, and she can’t pull the tube from her veins. The substance makes her panic, induces hallucinations, but she uses Jane’s tricks- focuses her mind until she can almost block it. Her pulse is racing. The blood is flowing. But she finds a peaceful spot inside her where she hides, curled into a ball, while the storm rages around her. Where she can watch herself from afar.

Look how afraid she is. How her dark red blood dries to brown stains on her arms, as if the liquid has been stopped in mid-flow.

Red John leaves.

Her breathing is too fast, hyperventilation. Not good.

One- inhale. Two- exhale. She stops her panting, feels dizzy from the drugs. But she smiles. Way to go, boy.

I’m stronger than you think I am.

She decides to take the dreamless slumber now. She needs every ounce of energy for this battle.

But the images inside her head won’t let her sleep for hours.

Xxxxxxxxxx

Grace van Pelt’s hair is unwashed, and she hates it. It feels heavy on her head, dragging her down like wet cloth. But she can’t take a break.

Her fingertips feel chafed from flying over the keys, desperately trying to find a clue, a trace, a way to find the boss. The woman who has done so much for all of them. Their lifeline. Their beacon.

Grace buries her face inside her hands, trying to battle the rage that devours her like a blazing flame whenever she thinks too hard.

“Have something to eat, Grace,” Rigsby says.

She looks at him. He’s pale and tired, an expression of disbelief and defeat on his face.

Nobody believes that Lisbon is still alive. But Grace refuses to give up.

Her eyes wander over the bullpen, so still and alien, changed now that Lisbon is gone. Her gaze meets Patrick Jane’s quiet form on the couch, and the old sensation of anger boils up again. Almost hatred.

She hates him these days. Because while the team frantically tries to find the boss, Jane is so calm it annoys her no end.

His eyes are closed. His hands loosely folded on his upper stomach. His lips slightly parted, his posture that of a man in the embrace of relaxation, maybe even sleep.

A painful pang races through Grace’s body. How can he, after all Lisbon has done for him?

Grace can’t bear his calm, the quiet contemplation, the resignation with which he seems to accept his closest friend’s fate.

With a desperate wince, Grace turns her eyes to the screen and continues her search. She has to find her, has to unearth some clues.

Before the world stopped turning.

Xxxxxxxxxx

Lisbon lets her hands wander over the old heater, learning every inch of rusty metal. Who knows what it will be good for in the end?

Anything that keeps her busy, focused, sane.

Her fingertip catches on a sharp edge, she can feel the drop of blood forming on her skin. What’s that? Some kind of shard, still connected to the metal, but only barely- could she pry it loose?

She tries to push her fingers beneath it, she hurts herself, blood is running over her hands, dripping onto the floor. What if Red John sees it?

Doesn’t matter, she is dead anyway.

She ignores the pain, tightens her grip around the sharp little shard, tries to pull it lose. The chains tug at her wrists, she ignores it until the ache is like a cloud, surrounding her from every side.

She continues. Pulling, digging. So much blood, how severely is she hurt? Not too much, she can stand it. Can stand it.

Sharp metal, rust is falling to the floor, mingling with her blood.

The sound it makes when the shard finally comes free is unremarkable, just a little ping, but her stomach gives a firm lurch. The little piece of metal is hardly longer than her palm, but it’s pointed like a dagger. A weapon. She caresses the rough surface and forces herself to collect her thoughts.

Will Red John see the small puddle of blood on the floor, realize what she’s up to?

The room is dark where she’s sitting, she tries to move her numb legs, without much success. She knows he’s paying attention, underestimating him is stupid.

As if on cue, the door opens, and Red John stands in front of her. She drops the shard just in time, behind the heater. He would have to lie on his stomach to see it.

Lisbon forces herself to look him straight in the eye, showing her contempt for him in ugly, blazing colors. How could they have trusted him? He’s managed to fool even Jane all these years.

Jane.

She swallows the thought, shaking her head to get rid of any weakness that might show up. She can’t let that distract her now.

This time, she hears his voice.

“Let’s see how long you can resist me, agent Lisbon,” he says, putting the IV on, “Kristina Frye was such a big disappointment, believe me. Then again, she made herself a victim, while you are a thing between Patrick Jane…”

She blocks his voice. How could he have fooled them? He’s pathetic, and his ranting is all the same.

She concentrates on his neck. Carotid artery. Her only chance.

Where is this fucking artery? She feels the dizziness the drug is inducing, her panic rises, and she empties her mind, concentrates on her breathing. Her hands are trembling like mad, but she has enough sense to half-hide them beneath the heater, concealing the blood she has spilled.

She only has one chance, one try, one thrust with her self-made dagger. But she can’t do it now. She sees mad trolls with red eyes, ogling her as if they want to devour her, extinguish her. They are not here, she whispers in her mind, they are not here. Her throat is so dry every swallow burns like fire.

Where on the neck is the carotid artery?

She has to take him down before he starts the IV drip, before he can use the drugs on her. Only one try. If they are far enough from civilization for him to get help, it might work.

Red John looks at her, his eyes flat and icy. She tries to read his stare, but the drugs make her fuzzy and nauseous, her world already evaporating into the mad frenzy of her hallucinations.

She gives in to them, allows herself to be utterly scared for a moment, because that’s what he wants to see, isn’t it?

I’m giving him his heart’s desire.

And for once, she isn’t swallowing the scream, lets it bubble up until it fills the air around her, mingling with Red John’s laughter.

Xxxxxxxxxx

Patrick Jane manages a smile and a playful wink for agent Carson’s new secretary. They ride the lift in silence, and he is grateful when she gets out, leaving him to his thoughts. The moment the doors close behind her, he slumps against the wall, closing his eyes to fight the pain.

His attic is cool and lonely, but he hardly feels anything, his skin like a pelt belonging to a different creature.

He can’t give in to the countless dark voices inside of him now, can’t break down again. It would make him useless in this final hunt, and he absolutely can’t be.

But he needs release, can’t go on without it, not a single step, so he stops in the middle of the room and allows panic and despair to rise like a poisonous mist, to engulf him completely. He screams, as loud as he can, the sound painful and wild all around him, a storm of emotions he can never show.

Later, he hits the wall until his knuckles are bloody. Afterwards, he’s able to think again.

He lies down on his make-shift bed and stares at the ceiling, his mind wandering here and there while he lets it play. Always the best way to success.

The pain comes back, making him sob, but he has to fight it. He is her only chance.

She can make it, he whispers into the darkness, she’s stronger than every other person I know. She can make it. I have to start believing, now.

He closes his eyes and lets his overactive mind sniff around the one single question: Who and where is Red John?

He has to solve the puzzle right now, or his powerful little angel is lost. She can’t be, can’t die, because if Red John destroys her, everything will come tumbling down. The team would scatter. And he would become insane.

He can already feel it, the slow seep of madness. The longer she’s gone, the more attractive his own death seems- his only chance of nothingness. Of escape.

How could he have let this happen?

He’s never told her what he feels for her, and now she could be anywhere slaying his dragons, with only a shady notion of what she means to him. He sobs once more before he forces himself to concentrate on the only thing that matters right now: Red John.

I can find you, Teresa Lisbon. I have to find you.

Xxxxxxxxxxx

Lisbon is panting slightly.

The effect of the drugs has worn off, but she can’t go through many more of these sessions, or she will start to lose it.

She recalls medical training, advanced first aid. Carotid artery. In her mind, she practices the stab a million times.

Her hands are chained, but she has some freedom of movement. Red John trusts that she can’t find any kind of weapon, and she’s starved, weak. She won’t allow this to stop her.

He has to come very close to make the kill possible, but he often does, likes to smell her fear, to show her how daring he can become with her, what a poor opponent she is in his eyes.

Jane has been right: he’s arrogant, he makes mistakes.

Jane.

She closes her eyes and lets the pain and the longing wash over her, but no… she can’t think about him now. Can’t allow herself to imagine a life beyond these walls.

Even if she kills Red John, she will most likely die. Nobody knows where she is, she is all alone. She doesn’t dare to make too much noise, but she would like to hear the echo of her own voice. She hasn’t spoken in months. Weeks? She doesn’t know, has lost all sense of time and space.

She has to focus, Red John will be here soon.

It’s not much later when she hears him open the door.

He starts babbling immediately, but she doesn’t want to hear him and the rush of her blood is loud enough to drown any other sound.

Suddenly she feels every little sensation in sharp acuteness: her icy legs. The pain in her wrists. The sharp blade of her little dagger, the rusty metal biting into her palm.

One try.

She looks at his neck, not openly, out of the corner of her eye. She can’t see his pulse. He’s calm, composed. The cold bastard.

He kneels down next to her to put up the IV. He’s careless, and she almost smiles. The room is too dark for him to see what she holds in her hands, but that will change soon, and she can’t let him administer the drugs.

Everything happens in slow motion. His skin mapped out like a treasure chart. A huge red X marking her goal.

She grips the shard tighter. Smells her own blood. Stops the tremor in her hands. And rams the blade into his neck as hard as she can.

The arterial spray hits her right in the face, and she gasps, gags, shocked at how easily the sharp metal slides through flesh and tissue.

Red John’s eyes become wide, he’s touching the little shard, and there’s so much blood, its smell is filling the whole room, she gags helplessly, but damn, she needs to be prepared.

He tries to grab her throat, but his movements get erratic fast, and she musters every ounce of strength she has left in her numb legs, forcing her muscles to move for this one strike.

She kicks him in the stomach, his gasp tells her she’s hit the solar plexus.

He collapses, a pang of triumph and revulsion fills her up, and Red John, serial killer, mastermind, bleeds out on the cold concrete floor.

It’s over so fast she’s stunned.

The blood runs beneath her thighs, so much red everywhere, she can taste the coppery tang, her face is covered in it. She sobs and laughs all at the same time, before she sobers up fast.

Her throat is dry, and she knows how she is going to die: of thirst.

How will it feel, dying of thirst? She has no idea.

She searches Red John’s pockets for a key, something to help her open the lock on her chains. But it’s a futile hope, he doesn’t carry anything with him except the drugs. She experiments with the needle, then the little shard she has just used to kill, but she isn’t Patrick Jane, can’t pick the lock.

Finally, she settles calmly against the heater and stares at the ceiling, trying to ignore the smell of blood and decay all around her.

For the first time since she’s been abducted, she allows the dreams to intrude, thinks about the real world outside her cage.

Jane.

His hands, his scent. The annoying drawl his voice takes on when he doesn’t want to tell her about his plans. His lies. His secrets. His brutal honesty. The beautiful trust that has built her world.

A little tear trickles down her cheek, and she smiles. Will he be mad that she has killed the killer? That she hasn’t left Red John for him? Well, Mr. Perfect can go fuck himself.

She chuckles and wishes that she had touched him more often, hugged him, held his hand. She hardly knows how he feels, and a woebegone sadness creeps into her heart.

Teresa Lisbon closes her eyes and waits for her death.


	2. The Bravest Soul

The darkness is complete, his attic like a part of another world, secluded from everything else.

Patrick Jane hasn’t slept in days. He can’t sleep. Has to work, has to find Red John, once and for all. Save his guardian angel. Teresa Lisbon’s face seems to hover in front of him like an apparition, and he knows he’s too tired to accomplish anything, his mind needs a break.

Pain grabs him like a fiery fist, and he reaches out to touch her, tries to remember the texture of her skin, but he’s never really been that close, has missed his chance.

He wants to howl at the unfairness of it all, he’s never been more than a harmless idiot, an asshole who played with people’s minds, has he deserved to suffer like this? Never to have a normal life, a chance to make something last, to find a home anywhere?

He closes his eyes on a wild little sob- no, he’s over this, has always accepted his guilt. He got them killed. Every soul he loves gets extinguished like a flickering flame, because of him. Loving him is like poison.

He forces his body to calm down, to allow sleep to approach. Just a few hours. In the dark room between wakefulness and slumber, memories surface. His meeting with Red John. The clues he has gathered over the years… Jane floats, is hardly conscious any longer when suddenly his eyes fly open, and everything snaps into place.

He jumps up and storms into the bullpen, searching Lisbon’s office for a map of Sacramento. Something with many details, come on, he knows it’s there- finds it immediately when he bothers to use his mind calmly and methodically. He needs to keep his cool, needs to function. Feelings can come later.

Where are you?

The perfect hunting ground. The perfect hideout.

He recalls every single thing he knows about Red John, every scrap of information.

Where would he go? Where would he feel comfortable, something with meaning for him.

Jane thinks about where they found Kristina Frye. Would he repeat this pattern? No. He wouldn’t.

The sleepiness is gone, he’s alert and giddy. He’s close, he can feel it, closer than he’s ever been before. He can taste his enemy.

It takes half the night, but in the early morning hours, clarity flashes through his mind like lightning. He takes his mobile and dials the number with trembling fingers.

“Cho? I know where she is.”

Xxxxxxxxxx

Her lips are cracking. She’s never known that skin could get this dry.

Teresa Lisbon hums softly to herself, but since Red John has caught her in front of her apartment, she’s never felt this much at peace.

She starts getting dizzy, as if she spent too much time in the heat lately. She laughs. Heat. Her legs feel frozen solid.

She stares at the corpse next to her and forces herself to look away immediately. The smell is awful, but it could be worse. The cold prevents decay, she can manage. Not that there’s much to manage- she’s clearly dying. Sure she can manage dying, can’t she?

She giggles helplessly.

Hallucinations start. She sees Jane kneeling in front of her, his eyes deep and sad.

She knows he’s not real, she’s not that far gone yet, but it’s good to see him anyway.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, but she can’t touch him, of course, and she wants it so much.

She closes her eyes and tries to invite sleep like a well- missed friend. Maybe death will accompany it and let her pass away in her slumber.

Dying of thirst isn’t pleasant. But it could be worse.

xxxxxxxxxx

The building reaches into the sky like a sore, crumbling tooth. It’s dark, the area is crammed with FBI- and CBI-agents who wear Kevlar vests and guns.

The old refrigerated store houses of Sacramento, decrepit and decomposing.

Jane is shaking like a leaf, but as always when he’s dealing with Red John, he’s not scared. He’s right behind Cho, who has been granted the honor of storming the building with his team. It’s their boss inside there. They’ll get her out.

The murmur of voices around them is deafening, but when Cho turns and looks him directly in the eyes, Jane hears him.

“We will most likely find her corpse, Jane,” Cho says calmly, only his gaze showing how much he is shaken, “are you prepared?”

No. Of course he isn’t. How can he be prepared.

“Yes.” He says quietly.

Cho nods slowly and turns, raising his gun in front of him.

It’s time.

Xxxxxxxxxx

Grace looks at Jane. He seems so calm, so composed, she can’t bear it. Would like to hit him if she hadn’t seen him shaking.

She looks up at the dark building, her protective vest pulling at her shoulders.

If they find Lisbon, she will forgive Jane.

She pushes back the fear, the sadness, makes herself function like a machine. This might be the last they could do for the boss. Retrieve her body, grant her peace. Grace will at least try to behave like Teresa Lisbon has lived: brave beyond words.

The whole building is rusty, Cho kicks the door in effortlessly, and suddenly Grace knows that she won’t be able to play this in a dignified way, that she once again will be the untried rookie who breaks down crying in the face of everyday tragedy. So what? Nothing can make this situation any worse.

The agents try not to make too much noise, but they aren’t too successful while they kick down doors, scan creepy, empty cells of rooms, no windows. Stale, cold, dusty air.

Room after room shows up empty, and at some point, the first agents start to believe that Patrick Jane is wrong. Grace can hear them muttering all around her, voicing their doubts. It wouldn’t be the first time, and hey… everybody can understand the strain he must be under. Fighting against the clock for the woman who has always had his back, no matter how much crap he has piled up in his backyard.

Yes, they can understand that his judgment is fallible in times like these- until they come to the basement.

Something is different here, and Grace feels the tiny hairs on her neck stand on end before the unmistakable smell of blood reaches her nose.

They have found what they’ve been looking for.

Grace feels her eyes water. Damn, she can’t do this, she’s as scared as she’d ever been in her life. Lisbon has always been the last good thing in her life after everything came down around her.

She looks at Jane. His face is calm, almost bored. But tears are streaming down his face, thin, wet rivulets glistening in the gloomy illumination. There are guns all around him, and she knows he usually hates them. But he’s not afraid. Almost as if he is willing to die. Ready.

The smell is awful, huge amounts of blood and the distinct stink of decomposing flesh. Grace gags. She almost doesn’t want this door opened, but damn- she is a CBI agent.

And Cho kicks down the door.

Xxxxxxxxxx

All of a sudden, the door crashes open, the rusty metal almost flying off its hinges. At first she thinks it’s just a hallucination, another dream scenario where she is magically saved at the last minute, but suddenly deafening noise fills the room, and she knows that in no way she would hallucinate that many sounds.

It hurts her ears, shouting voices, agents, police officers, paramedics.

Everybody stares at the corpse of Sacramento’s most wanted serial killer, which is in a terribly bad shape meanwhile. She recognizes the shock in their colleagues’ faces. Nobody would have suspected him, he had fooled them all.

Glee fills her mind for a second, he is dead and she is still alive, they have found her.

“Grace,” she croaks, ”your gun.”

Van Pelt shoots the lock on her chains open, the bang is loud and cleansing, and Lisbon sighs in relief just before Grace pulls her into a fierce embrace. It feels good, human contact. Lisbon’s legs are numb and she knows that she won’t be able to stand on her own for a while, so she just allows Grace to hug her, lets reality seep in.

She’s free.

And over Grace’s shoulder, she sees him.

Patrick Jane. He leans over the corpse, his face convulsing in disgust.

Don’t blame yourself, Lisbon thinks.

But she can see that he’s ashamed, that he can’t really believe that this man has fooled him like that.

Lisbon wants to console him, be there for him. But for once, she knows it’s not her place.

Suddenly, he looks at her, and she doesn’t know what kind of emotions she expected, but it isn’t this.

He smiles at her, smiles through his tears. He raises his hand, saluting her. A soldier’s greeting. She finds herself smiling back, hot tears running down her cheeks.

She wants to keep him. Wants him to stay, as a free man, forever. But reality can’t be changed, no matter how hard she wishes to.

She knows he has to go, can almost feel the need to escape radiate from him, urgent, raw. She is afraid that she will never see him again, but she can’t make herself stop him. He’s a wild beast. And now that his revenge is complete, his life in shambles, he needs to roam.

Jane nods a last time and leaves, finding his way through clusters of agents, shocked and relieved faces blur into one, and Lisbon finds herself reaching out, her hand trying to regain the connection.

But Patrick Jane is gone.

Grace releases her, somebody holds a glass of water to her lips, she swallows greedily, the cool liquid almost burns on its way down her throat, but it feels good, she’s alive, she feels pain. Her wrists throb as somebody wraps gauze around it. Her bare shoulders are covered with a blanket, she hasn’t noticed. A stretcher is brought into the room, the paramedic puts on an IV, she thinks of Red John and flinches, but she doesn’t stop them, just eyes the clear liquid in the infusion bag with a little dread.

Cho insists on being the one who lifts her onto the stretcher, and suddenly she wants Jane, feels lonely and bereft, longing tearing at her heart. She doesn’t want to talk, swallows the sobs. No weakness. She has survived this. She can do the rest.

Her eyes can’t stop looking for him, searching the crowd for his blond curls. She just wants a word. But Jane stays gone.

He’s not there when she lies in the ambulance, and he’s away all night, while she stays stubbornly awake in case he decides to pay her a visit.

But he never comes.

Xxxxxxxxxx

In the evening, she sits on his couch, drinking a cup of tea. She often does this, the night swirling around her like an ocean, tossing her thoughts here and there, until they melt into dreams and memories, fantasies that give her solace sometimes.

She knows she’s catching at straws.

Six months since she’s last seen him, and she has sworn that she would accept it this time. That she will let him go, take him the way he is. She just hopes that he’s warm and healthy, that Red John’s death changed something for him, in a good way. She’s constantly afraid that he might be dead, but she stubbornly believes that she would feel it if he were, that they have some kind of connection that can’t be severed.

She misses him with a passion that scares her sometimes.

The fact that she’s majorly annoyed with herself, most of the time, every day, doesn’t make it any easier. The nightmares are starting to get on her nerves. The constant need to work, so strong she doesn’t go home most nights. Just ploughs through her pile of paperwork like a good animal. Sleep is her enemy, a traitor, she never dreams about the good things, never dreams about Jane or the nice times with her team. She only dreams about Red John.

Everybody’s past with him. His lies, his deceiving smiles. What she had told him about herself, blind with trust. Jane has never liked him. In that regard, the killer hasn’t fooled him. She smiles sadly.

It’s getting harder and harder to live with this hole, this void inside her, and she just hopes that she won’t miss the point where she finally has to do something.

But she soldiers on, days blurring into a single mess, until one night after nine months without Patrick Jane in her life, she finds herself in his attic. His makeshift bed is still there, she can almost guess the contours of his head on the pillow.

She lies down, pushing her nose into the dusty fabric.

And suddenly she knows- the moment has come.

It’s time to find him.


	3. Finding Him

Patrick Jane is hard to find.

He’s not using credit cards, isn’t surfing the internet, doesn’t leave a trace. Lisbon is utterly reluctant to use Grace’s abilities as a researcher for her own personal quest, but as the weeks pass she feels more and more clueless.

Sitting one night in the attic, drinking tea from Jane’s turquoise cup, she decides to search through his things. It feels like a betrayal, but it’s the only way she hasn’t tried yet.

He has left about everything, his files, his books, a few personal belongings. Even some of his clothes are still in a cardboard box under the table. But obviously not all of his suits- so he’s been here while she was in hospital.

A sharp pang of loneliness fills her heart as she rummages through his things, trying to fight her bad conscience. But she needs to find him, needs to see him again, even if it’s just a glimpse, nothing more than a word. It would be better than not knowing at all.

She touches his razor. A half-empty bottle of Eau de Cologne. Lifts every shirt he has left. Skims through every book.

And just as she’s leafing through his copy of “Romeo and Juliet”, a small piece of paper falls out, slowly gliding to the floor.

Lisbon picks it up and reads what is written on it in Jane’s handwriting:

“If you’re ready, come and find me.”

There’s a drawing on the backside: a lighthouse. And a tree.

She’s still frowning when she sits behind her desk, trying to solve the puzzle. Jane’s drawing abilities are fine, so she has to just clear her mind to get to the bottom of this. A tree. A lighthouse. Light-tree? Tree-light? Hmmm, no. There are thousands of lighthouses along the American coast, East and West, how shall she find the one connected to a tree?

She researches a little bit, but it leads to nothing.

Three o’clock in the morning, it’s a wonder that she’s still able to think at all.

She looks at Jane’s drawing. Maybe she is just too tired. She hasn’t slept well since she escaped her personal hell, and it’s starting to impair her abilities as an investigator.

She stares at the piece of paper until it becomes blurry before her eyes, and her head sinks down on the keyboard of her computer. Just a few moments, just closing her eyes for a bit, reloading her batteries.

When she wakes up, it’s already morning, the bullpen is bustling with activity, the keyboard has imprinted itself in her cheek and there is another piece of paper next to Jane’s, covered in Grace’s bold handwriting: “Charlotte’s Cove, Maine.”

She looks at the drawing again. Of course, dammit, how could that have escaped her attention? It’s not just any tree- it’s a pine tree.

For the Pine-Tree-State.

Maine.

Xxxxxxxxxx

“You’ll come back, boss?” Grace asks anxiously, her eyes dark and pleading.

The airport is like a pile of ants, busy and fast, the flickering of color and noise hurting eyes and ears.

Lisbon smiles.

“I promise,” she says.

If there’s a place on earth she can’t leave- it’s where these people are. Her team.

Cho hugs her awkwardly, while Rigsby almost squeezes the life out of her. Grace holds her for a long time, and her eyes are wet when she pulls back.

Madeleine Hightower is the last one to say goodbye, and she enfolds Lisbon in a thorough embrace.

“Enjoy your well-deserved holiday, agent Lisbon,” she says, “and come back with good news.”

Lisbon nods solemnly. They’re all scared that Jane could have decided to end his life by now. Her journey is a walk into the unknown, and she has no idea what she will find at the end of the tunnel. She is unbelievably excited when at the same time, the unnatural calm she has felt ever since she killed Red John never wavers. Her survival has marked her for life, changed her profoundly.

She smiles and turns, walking down the gangway into the illuminated belly of the plane.

Traveling is exciting, it’s been eons since she’s been on vacation, and although this journey has a serious background, she feels elated to escape, to experience something new. The horror of her past has numbed her, and she is ready for new insights, fresh impressions. Maybe even some fresh cuts- she has to take the risk.

“If you’re ready, come and find me.”

She is ready. She’ll find him.

Xxxxxxxxxx

Patrick Jane lets the teabag sink into the steaming water, watching it color in various shades of reds and browns.

The sun hasn’t risen yet, but he’s used to it, his insomnia has never left him, so he watches the morning break on most days, comfortable in the ocean’s company.

He takes the stairs to the top of his little tower, sometimes like a fortress, sometimes like a medieval prison. But he finds safety behind its thick walls- he’s not fit for human company any longer, and that’s fine with him.

He carefully balances the tea cup, step for step, his own feet making the only sound in the confines of his retreat.

He starts the powerful beacon of the lighthouse, watches its shine flow over the gentle surf, casting glittering highlights.

The lighthouse isn’t needed any longer, but the people of Charlotte’s Cove have gotten used to the lights flaring up early in the morning. He bets they talk about him a lot, but he’s never around to hear it. Shall they believe him to be a chichi city slicker. They can never be too far from the truth.

He is like a phantom these days, and sometimes he doesn’t recognize his reflection in the mirror.

He has thought about suicide. Has pondered methods and things he had to clear up first. There wasn’t much to consider, there was only one living person who meant anything to him, so all his stuff and money and books and cars would go to her. He has a will in the drawer of his little desk, in case it will be needed in the future.

He is free to leave this shitty life.

But just as he had thought the time had come, he had realized that it doesn’t matter.

Nothing does.

He has his tea, his life, his thoughts. His death won’t change anything, and with a shrug, he realizes that it can wait.

The truth is more complicated, of course. Patrick Jane is waiting.

Maybe she has never found his little message. Maybe she doesn’t want to find him. Maybe she is still livid because he left like this, without a word.

But the thought that she could come looking for him, that one day she might appear on his doorstep, to smile at him or punch him in the nose, sends a giddy pleasure into his heart. Like a pacemaker. That makes him go on, day after day.

He’s always known that she needs him less than he needs her, despite everything he portrayed, acted and said, that he would have been nothing without her all those years. He can wait for her.

When he goes, he will leave her with some kind of peace.

It has time. Everything has.

Xxxxxxxxxx

The summer air in Maine is crisp and clear, she can smell the ocean, so close the thundering surf is filling her ears.

It’s windy today, and the little blue car she has rented in Portland makes all kinds of strange sounds. It’s almost comforting, feels like returning to her college days, where everything was noisy and makeshift.

She feels different, freer, and when she can finally see the ocean, she stops the car and gets out without thinking, racing towards the waves like a little child.

She lets the cool water wash over her instep, it’s too early for people to be out and about, so she’s all alone on the quiet beach. Twilight colors the sky, and the world seems to be blue all over.

Clear and unmistakable, she sees the huge beacon of the lighthouse. It sits on a rocky little island close to the coast, like a matronly watcher, heavy and plump. Dawn tints it a bluish hue, much like everything else, and it would blend into its surroundings effortlessly if it weren’t for the bright, eerie light it’s sending.

Her stomach gives a little lurch. He’s up there. He has to be. She can almost feel his presence, her heart hammering against her ribcage.

But she knows she doesn’t need to be afraid. He’s expecting her.

She gets back into the car, her wet feet slipping a little on the pedals. She is beyond care.

The lighthouse is huge up close, and she parks her car a little away from it, somehow reluctant to make too much noise. Maybe she wants to surprise him. But he’s never surprised, and she knows it.

While she approaches, the past years seem to pass her by again. All the time they have spent together, closer than friends, never quite lovers. They have done so much. Missed out on so much.

She never bothers to put her shoes back on, they stay in the car, her sandy feet leaving a mess on his front stairs.

What now? There’s no doorbell. She lifts her hand to knock, thinks about shouting. But eventually, she just turns the knob, and the door swings open without making a sound at all.

Inside she finds the expected stairs, and she ascends them slowly. Eerie calm settles inside her guts, a calm she knows. The calm of those who survived hell. It covers her like a protective blanket, always has since the devil has died from her hands.

The room on the first floor is a sleeping room. Sparsely furnished, a wide bed, a drawer, a simple closet. A grey vest is folded on the bedspread, and she can’t resist touching it, slowly padding into the room. The wooden floor feels cool beneath her bare feet, the world seems whitewashed in this part of Earth.

The silky fabric feels smooth and pure against her fingertips, she lifts the vest slowly, presses it to her face. Shudders when his scent engulfs her senses. She doesn’t want to let go, but she folds the garment and puts it back.

She walks into the adjoining bathroom, strangely oblivious to the breech of privacy she is committing here. Somehow, it just doesn’t matter any longer. She sees a bottle of the same Eau de Cologne he has left in the attic and smiles. She touches his shaving brush, as old-fashioned as the whole concept of Patrick Jane. Tears spring to her eyes, she’s so glad some things never change, that he’s still here to be a part of her life.

Maybe it’s not too late. She ventures on.

The second floor is some kind of living room, almost looking like a library. Ceiling-high shelves crammed with books, a little fireplace and a comfortable-looking couch. Patrick Jane’s realm.

But where is he?

She can’t hear a sound until she is almost on the third floor, then suddenly, there is something, a faint clicking sound, like cutlery brushing against each other. She takes the last few steps two at a time.

It’s a kitchen. He stands at the counter, his back is to her. He wears a dark grey three-piece-suit without the jacket, the sleeves of his light-blue shirt are rolled up. She releases a shuddering breath.

His scent, clean and warm and pure, seems to fill her nostrils, his presence palpable in every single thing in the room, and she inhales almost greedily, allows her system to be filled by him. She swallows, the sound loud to her own ears, but he doesn’t turn.

He’s obviously preparing a pot of tea.

“Come in, dear,” he croons, “tea is ready. I expected you. Took you a while.”

He turns then and she smiles, because it’s still there, he is still there, and she can’t stop staring at him. His hair is a little longer, he lost a little weight. But he’s unmistakably Jane, and his curls gleam in the sunrise.

“Seriously, Jane,” she says, grinning like mad, “that was supposed to be a pine tree?”

“Of course,” he snorts, “it was a formidable pine tree. I bet Grace had no problems figuring it out, hadn’t she?”

“Nope,” she chuckles, ”not at all.”

“Great.” he smiles back, “Let’s go to the library, shall we?”

They sit on the couch and drink tea, and it feels so surreal she can barely hold back the girly giggle that’s bubbling up in her throat. The need to touch him is there, but she’s a grown woman, she can get a grip. She stares at him some more. He’s as beautiful as ever, she admits reluctantly. But even better is that his smile hasn’t changed, his voice, the way he moves. All the little things. He’s still himself, and she is so grateful she wants to weep.

They try to make polite conversation, Jane asks about the team, Lisbon about what he has been up to, both feel the wrongness of every word, can read the pain in the other’s eyes until all pretense falls away and they start talking for real.

“I always knew you would leave afterwards,” she whispers, “so I was never mad at you.”

“But you missed me,” he said solemnly, ”and I’m very sorry for that.”

She shrugs. She seems to do that a lot lately.

“I was aware of what I’m getting into. I didn’t want an easy way out, Jane. I had a million chances. More than one man who wanted to give me a happily ever after. But what I wanted, was this. Obviously.”

He puts his fingers beneath her chin, lifting her face, and the contact feels like an electrical current, shooting through her system, her very core. A tremor runs through her, so deep she can almost feel her internal organs rattle, her blood getting shaken inside her veins until it seems to form bubbles.

Jane’s voice is warm and soothing, as if it were the lullaby she has been waiting for during those past months full of nightmares.

“Didn’t your mother teach you not to cry for worthless men, Lisbon? How very negligent of her.”

For a moment she thinks about her mother and how much she would have liked him, his boyishness, the smile, his killer charm. Oh yes, her mother would have been a sucker for him.

“Cut the crap, Jane,” she says, “you’re not worthless. What do you think made all the shit I’ve been through worthwhile?”

She makes a painful pause, collecting her wits. She has sworn she wouldn’t cry. She will keep that promise, and if she has to bite off her own tongue to do it, so be it.

“Whom do you guess I thought about when I believed I was dying, Jane?”

He looks down, ashamed, and that breaks the last remains of her resistance. She touches him, brushes a golden curl from his forehead, the hair so silky soft her lips part almost on their own. When he looks at her, his eyes are full of tears, but he smiles. He’s good at that, smiling through his tears.

“If you don’t stop degrading yourself,” she whispers, ”I’m going to spank you- I mean it, Jane!”

He laughs, and it’s about the first real, deep, full-fledged laugh she as ever heard from him. His whole face changes when he laughs, he looks young, so, so young, an innocence spreading on his features she has never seen before. She is mesmerized, wants to sit here and listen to him laughing, watch him transform into this happy, carefree being over and over again.

“I would like to see that,” he says when he’s found his voice again.

“You won’t see it,” she chuckles, “you will FEEL it, you moron.”

They laugh together, laugh until tears spring to their eyes.

They talk some more, quietly, like a background hum, as if they want nothing but hear each other’s voices. She looks at him again and again, can’t believe he’s real. She can’t remember when she’s last been this happy. It’s been a while.

They eat cookies he has made himself, of course they are delicious.

It gets dark as fast as if somebody has switched off all the lamps, a whole day gone like the blink of an eye.

“Come on,” he says, “I’ll get your suitcase from your car. You can get settled while I cook you dinner. You must be starved.”

She isn’t. She could sit here with him for eternity, just listening to his voice, but she gets up obediently and follows him downstairs, the dark body of the lighthouse eerily calm. She can hardly hear the waves through the thick walls.

Jane gets her suitcase and puts it into the bedroom on the first floor.

“Bathroom’s over there,” he says, pointing to the little chamber she has already inspected on her way up, “just come into the kitchen whenever you’re ready. I’ll put together something hot, to warm your stomach.”

He smiles and turns to leave, but she stops him at the last moment.

“Uhm, Jane? Where will you sleep?”

He looks at her over his shoulder, his smile never wavers.

“Right here. The bed is big enough. And it’s the only one in the lighthouse.”

She is dumbfounded, doesn’t know what to say. He expects them to share a bed? But…she can’t, they… she absolutely never…

Words won’t come, which is strange in itself. Why doesn’t she simply laugh at him and offer to take the couch? Comfortable couch, she’s small enough to spend her nights there, piece of cake, isn’t it?

He turns around, facing her. His eyes are deep and earnest, she has looked at him millions of times, but now she could just drown in the light green of his gaze, bottomless, heat and cold mingling.

“Does that bother you?” he asks.

She averts her eyes, thinks for a moment, before she looks at him again and shrugs.

“No.” she says.

And all of a sudden, it’s nothing but the truth.


	4. Survivors

She is fast asleep before her head hits the pillow. He chuckles softly to himself- too bad he isn’t exciting enough to keep her awake.

She looks tiny in her sleep, so innocent and soft, her cop-stance, all the pieces of her armor gone. And she looks tired, so he is content to let her rest.

He traces the dark rings beneath her eyes with his fingertips, shame shooting through his core like a flame. He can’t imagine how much it must hurt to love him. Only someone like her could manage. Her and Angela. They have seen the worst of him, and he still can’t understand why it hasn’t sent them running.

But she is here. The real Teresa Lisbon, not a figment of his hungry soul, not an image his lonely mind has concocted.

He hasn’t asked her how long she plans to stay, and he isn’t going to. This is a dream, a short relief from an existence that has nothing to offer him. He will live the fantasy, taste its false promise to the fullest.

His attempts to stay detached, unfeeling, aloof, his undying wish to hide his own emotions from himself- nothing of this matters any longer. He shrugs inwardly, watching his time in Sacramento from a faraway place, as if this man doesn’t really belong to him. He’s a ghost of his past, just as the conman, the fake-psychic, the husband and father. Lost, apparitions he can’t touch. Nothing but pictures.

Red John’s death hasn’t killed the shame, the guilt, the realization that he couldn’t be a part of normal life any longer, and the still sane part of him has always known revenge wouldn’t make him magically whole again. But he is changed.

He has always tried to keep her away from his heart. Has never wanted her to intrude in his solitude. Now, he can’t remember why, although of course he has always wanted to protect her. Without success, he admits miserably. But in this silent moment with her, when finally she is close enough to touch, the past falls away from him, and the guilt is nothing but a quiet hum at the back of his soul. There, but just a pinch.

He leans over and kisses her forehead, her skin so infinitely soft against his lips he starts to tremble all over. He wants to feel her to the fullest. Before he has to let her go forever.

He gets up slowly when restlessness crawls across his body like a fever.

Dressed only in pajama pants, he climbs the stairs to the top floor and starts the beacon of the lighthouse, following the bright arch of light with his eyes. It travels over the nightly grey of the ocean, and he wishes so much it could guide him into a future, any kind. But he would prefer a future with her.

He closes his eyes in calm despair. It’s so much a part of him that it doesn’t upset him any longer. The frenzy of suffering seems to be inherent to his core, it taints everything. Yes, death is an option.

Dream inside her arms for a while, then glide into endless slumber when they have to part.

The light ebbs away like a heartbeat, lost in the depths of the sea.

He lowers his head in defeat when suddenly a bloodcurdling scream pierces the night. His body is frozen for a second before he acts on instinct, racing down the stairs to the bedroom, rushing to her side as fast as he can.

She’s sitting upright, staring at a bloody face that isn’t there, feeling the arterial spray on her skin again. Her breath is shallow and flat, her small frame shaking all over, eyes wide with terror. She isn’t awake, her pupils are small, her stare reaches far away.

He approaches her carefully, testing the waters by putting a finger on her arm, then his hand, before he finally pulls her into a close embrace. He shudders, she feels warm and solid against his naked skin, so small he can easily engulf her, shield her from the broken chimera of her nightmare.

But she can’t calm down, is shaking so hard her teeth are rattling. Jane holds her tighter, and tighter to no avail, until he gently frames her face with his hands.

“He’s not here,” he says urgently, ”but I am, Lisbon! I’m here. Look at me.”

Her eyes snap into focus. She extends her tongue to lick over dry lips, and he just can’t resist. What does it matter now? Nothing, nothing matters any longer.

He loves her, and he will lose her, for with Red John, his purpose is extinct. He’s outdated, a discontinued model. Obsolete now that the killer is dead.

He kisses her, feels the tiny moment of resistance, hesitation. He sighs when she gives in, molding her lips to his, swallowing his breath like a greedy little kitten. He doesn’t dare to push his tongue into her mouth. Later. He just wants to feel now, and when he finally pulls away, it is like a physical pain. He doesn’t mind, sucks every single sensation down, a collection of life that will remain when death enters his solitude once again. She is a bright light, stronger than the beacon of his lighthouse.

“Sleep.” He whispers, pulls her down with him, sheltering her in his arms. And she succumbs, her moist breath gliding against his naked chest, while he stays painfully awake, the loneliness trying to stab at him like a knife.

But at least with her in his arms, it can’t reach him.

Xxxxxxxxxx

Lisbon wakes up with her face pressed to Jane’s bare chest. It feels so wonderful that she can’t bring herself to pull back. Instead, she lies absolutely still, afraid of waking him up, of the awkwardness that will certainly follow.

Has he kissed her last night? Everything is blurry in her mind, dream and reality mingling into a shapeless memory she hardly can recall.

His arms are wrapped around her like steel bands, but when his hands are starting to roam, sliding over her scantily clad form (she wears a tank top and shorts) it’s not awkward at all, and he doesn’t hesitate for a second.

For the first time, hope flares inside her, and she closes her eyes against it, doesn’t want to see it, scared of her own disappointment. Over the past years, Jane has kept her in some kind of limbo, has advanced, then retreated, every touch has only caused him to pull back, every word has resulted in denial, harsh disclaimers, and him being pretty cold to her for the next few days.

So at one point, she has just accepted that he’s afraid to feel again. It has been part of their relationship, the repressed emotions, the frustration, the longing. Lisbon has always been aware that she loves him, and can’t have him. Period.

It’s like a mantra that plays inside her mind in an endless loop- face it, you can’t have him.

So when he starts caressing her now, she’s confused. She closes her eyes, tries not to feel too much, knowing it’s a lost cause right from the beginning.

His large, warm hands wander over her body, tickling a strip of bare flesh at her back before he gently cups her buttocks and pulls her closer. She can feel that he’s aroused, and he’s never let her see something like that before. His contours press into her abdomen, huge, hard, she shivers slightly.

He kisses her, just a soft, gentle meeting of lips, again, parting with a smacking sound that sends goose bumps all over her skin. How does he dare to taste this delicious first thing in the morning?

She nuzzles his neck, inhales his scent, and all the nightmares seem to belong into another universe. The past can’t touch her as long as he’s with her.

She winces when with a last kiss, he jumps out of bed and walks briskly towards the bathroom.

“Up, up, little one,” he exclaims cheerfully, “much on our agenda today!”

She stays in bed, glaring at the ceiling until he comes out of the bathroom again, dressed in an immaculate shirt and the mandatory three-piece-suit, his hair in perfect order. While her stomach is a mess of frustration and unfulfilled desire.

Why does this always happen to her? Suddenly, she wants to escape her life, wants some kind of order in the chaos, something to hold on to. Patrick Jane is like a butterfly, too fast for her clumsy hands.

He looks at her with a gentle smile and she almost snarls at him.

Instead, she gets up as dignified as possible and makes sure she doesn’t brush against his body on her way to the bathroom.

The cold shower feels good on her fevered skin, and she lets some hot tears mingle with the water, desperate, confused and disappointed. They drain away in a shapeless swirl, gone forever, childish hopes, dreams. Maybe if she tells that to herself often enough, she can eventually start to believe it.

But her heart still sends her images, of a future with him, a house, a dog… she shudders. She has learned nothing after all these years.

When she comes out of the shower, she is as frustrated as before. The clothes chafe on her skin, so she keeps it simple. Black skirt, black shirt. She never wears a skirt at home, but it’s summer, and she has no inclination to suffer any more than she needs to.

Her bad mood seems to increase with every stair she ascends, her insides clenching, heart hammering. Suddenly, she can’t say which direction they’re taking. What has happened last night?

He stands in front of the window, taking a sip from a steaming cup, undoubtedly tea. A hug in a cup. Well she will take one of those if she can’t have a real one.

He turns and smiles at her.

“May I say that you look especially lovely today, agent Lisbon?”

Oh, she is “agent Lisbon” now?

“What do you like the most,” she growls, “the dark rings beneath my eyes or the scowl on my face?”

He chuckles.

“Don’t be grumpy, little Teresa. We have a lot to do today. I have so much to show you. Don’t you want to see?”

She sighs helplessly. She doesn’t know what she wants any more. She wants him, she doesn’t want to get hurt. She’s always known she can’t have both. But her insides are tied into innumerable knots, her heart cramping with pain. Why does she still not deserve him? Why can’t she make this work?

Futile thoughts, she knows, she is not a baby. Dealing with the realities has always been her strong suit. So she smiles a brave smile and takes a bite of the perfect eggs he has prepared.

“Okay, Mr. happy smile,” she groans, “tell me about your plans.”

He sits down next to her on the little bench, and she immediately feels her skin crawl with desire. It feels good and bad at the same time, and she just accepts the sensation, as the darker part of her.

“I want to show you my village.” He says, and a dull pain blossoms in her stomach, making it feel as if it were filled with lead.

His village.

But she’s always known he’s not coming back, hasn’t she?

She almost hates her own weakness when she’s around him when at the same time, it gives her a glimpse at her own humanity. A softness she hasn’t lost while she had to toughen up in battle.

But her guts quiver in newfound aches, a vulnerability she has fought all her life to conquer. She’s not this woman, the love-struck girl who can’t let go, even in the most desperate of situations. Is she?

“Okay.” She says. ”I can’t wait to see it.”

Xxxxxxxxxx

It’s a grey and cloudy day, and she is still angry with him. He smiles and savors the onslaught of her emotions. It’s still fun teasing her, even if he doesn’t really want to keep his distance.

It’s just too delicious, this almost painful anticipation. He still can’t believe that he slept last night, deep and dreamless, her body so close they had almost fused into one being.

He’s been aroused and getting out of that bed has been far from easy, with her in it, sweet and pure and disheveled.

He takes her hand and feels her tense slightly, before she relaxes and accepts his touch. She has no idea how much he wishes to be a different man. Somebody who deserves to love her. Can’t she see that this is all they can have, that they are like beings from different times, meeting in the kiss of two dimensions? This bubble of happiness is everything fate grants them, for as long as it can last.

He groans in frustration.

“Everything alright?” she asks softly, and he can’t lie, so he just nods.

The village is bustling with life, and he instinctively recoils, has to force himself to smile and greet the passers-by who seem to have a vital interest in him. After almost a year of solitude in his lighthouse, his social skills feel rusty. But his mind hasn’t changed: he unmasks the darkest secrets of Charlotte’s Cove without even trying, fillets the inhabitants’ hearts with a single glance. It’s not hard to read their thoughts, and they don’t grant him comfort. He feels naked and exposed. After Red John’s death, he’s ready to vanish, too.

But Lisbon’s hand is grounding him, her soft fingers caressing his skin, feeling his anguish as an unspoken message to her. She’s always done this- her hot heart reads feelings as easily as his cool mind reads thoughts. His beautiful little witch.

But she isn’t his. And no matter what they build inside their little bubble for these precious days- he can never forget this.

They buy some groceries from the market, but he is glad when he can usher her to the ocean for a prolonged walk, the sky looking darker and angrier with every step they take.

Lisbon starts to glance at the clouds more often, looking worried.

“It looks like a big storm is on its way,” she says, “I guess we need to take cover.”

“No problem.” He smiles and grabs her hand, pulling her towards the rocky cliffside.

There’s a little cave in there, one of his favorite spots, a place where the solitude feels endless. It’s reminding him of how death has to feel like. Silent. Peaceful. Dark.

He pulls Lisbon onto a smooth natural bench formed from polished rock and gazes out into the clotting clouds, carrying the promise of a thunderstorm. The first bolts of lightning twitch over the gloomy sky.

The rain starts only minutes later, accompanied by the crackle of thunder.

The storm brings cool air, and Lisbon snuggles up against him, sighing with delight when he wraps his arm around her slim shoulders. She’s so warm, so open he can almost feel her heartbeat.

“How did it feel- killing him?” he asks.

She shrugs softly, and it reminds him of all the shrugs his life holds lately. Nothing matters.

“It was a necessity,” she whispers, “I didn’t feel much.”

“Liar.” He chuckles.

“Okay,” she sighs, ”it felt good at that time. To defeat him. Not to let the monster win. But in the end, he still managed to destroy a lot. He gave me nightmares. I still feel lost inside my skin. And sometimes I think there are not enough people in the world to conquer my loneliness. The problem is- I don’t want them. I trust no one, Jane.”

Her eyes say clearly “no one but you”.

He swallows.

“You’re a hero, Lisbon.”

“Killing someone doesn’t make you a hero.” She says. “I survived. Just like you did, Jane- you survived.”

He isn’t sure about that. What does he have to do with this world? Ever since his family died, he’s been a zombie. Maybe it’s really time to rest in peace now.

The storm-ridden landscape is starkly beautiful.

“I always wanted to live in a place like this,” he says, “wild and rugged and a little brash. Its beauty doesn’t sell easily, you have to fight to see it. I always wanted to raise a bunch of kids on a coast like this. But the money was too sexy for me back then.”

“You wanted more kids?” she asks quietly.

“Oh yes,” he whispers, a sharp ache tearing at his heart, “Angela didn’t. At least, not with me. Bosco was right, you know? She hated what I was doing. Kept begging me to stop. Cheating people had changed me, and not for the better. To make… people believe whatever you say, no matter how outrageous the lie, without really trying- it tends to give people a god-like feeling. I was no exception. I laughed about my clients. I saw every human being I met as a potential victim. But she still loved me. She still hoped my real self would be stronger in the end, the man she had fallen in love with.”

She puts her hand on his thigh, caresses him through the fabric of his pants. It feels good, feels like home, he hasn’t been touched for eternity. He needs her so much it hurts.

“Charlotte was about to enter school,” he continued, “Angela was always scared that she could learn what I was doing. That it would taint our daughter as it had me. That one day she could think- if my dad can wield that power, maybe I can, too? That she could become hard-nosed and cold.”

He looks at her.

“I destroyed their lives long before I got them killed.”

He wheezes, the pain so sharp he wonders how he remains upright. He feels like slumping down, dying in the dirt.

She strokes his face, her eyes huge, almost glowing in the murky darkness.

“I love you.” She says, and he so wishes that he could answer her, voice his feelings, make a new start.

But he can’t get her hopes up. Can’t promise her a future that simply isn’t there. He feels her pain as if it were his own, sees her swallowing it down. She’s always done this. Sucked the agony up through a straw and kept her spine straight. He wonders how she does it- he’s not half as strong.

“I guess Angela would like the man I have become since her death,” he says, ”law enforcement, shying away from the media, oblivious to material wealth… it was what she wanted. I was just too late. Only in death she could make me a better man.”

She kisses him then, just when he feels the first tear spill from his eyes, followed by many more, and he ponders what a pathetic failure he is when she pushes her little tongue into his mouth, and every thought leaves his mind.

Her taste is warm and sweet, like hot chocolate sauce on ice cream. He devours her, sucks on her tongue like a starving man, taking her moans deep inside his throat.

He has to have her, has to give himself this memory of a real life, before he goes.

These days are just for him, a last gift before he’ll invite darkness to swallow him up. He breaks the kiss and gently caresses her warm, compassionate, beloved face.

He can’t tell her how much he loves her. Because that would stop him from sending her away, and he has to, he knows.

When the pouring rain turns into a drizzle, they get out of the cave and walk home. The cool wetness washes away his tears. And when she wraps her arm around his waist, he already feels lighter.

Almost… normal.


	5. Set Fire to the Rain

When she wakes up late at night, he’s not in the bed with her.

She stares at the ceiling, and lets the loneliness seep into her to practice for the future. How can she make him go home with her? She can’t.

She still refuses to believe it, closes her eyes against a truth that just hurts too much. She can’t.

She gets up slowly and walks up the stairs, in nothing but her oversized football jersey and panties. She finds him in the kitchen.

He looks rugged and disheveled, his insomnia like a cloak he can’t shed.

He smiles at her, but his eyes are so sad, and she is scared for him. When something ever happens to him, she has no idea how she can go on.

She sits down next to him. He wears his blue pajamas, and she smiles, smiles for the memories and the almost good times they have shared. There has to be more. There just has to be.

She wants to hear him laugh again.

“Do you have a deck of cards?” she asks.

“Sure.” He answers, shrugging.

He gets up to fetch it, and she watches his body move, lithe and silent like that of a big cat. So much power beneath his calm exterior. Can she let him go? Forever, out of her reach, nothing but a memory?

Her insides clench in agony, so much pain she could fill jars with it. She’s fed up, wants to take him and escape, find a place where he can get help, there has to be such a place, she will find it. She would do anything for him.

He hands her the cards.

“What do you want to play?” he asks.

“Poker,” she answers, ”it’s the only game I know.”

They play for cookies, and he’s so much better than she is, it’s almost ridiculous. But he makes a show for her, practices dramatic gestures and grimaces until she has to call his bluff, makes her laugh through all the tears that are gathering in her stomach.

He is unique, so infinitely precious to her. Why can’t he understand?

He scoots closer and closer, until she can see his cards, but it doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter at all. He is smiling at her, and she regains this spark of hope, she doesn’t need more to try harder.

She will fight, dammit, fight like a lioness.

Something is blazing inside her, all the time, love, hunger, passion, explosive like gasoline. She couldn’t let him go. But she might have to.

“You’re pretty good at this,” he says, “where did you learn to play?”

She smiles at his charming lie, lowers her head in memory.

“I played with my mother,” she answers, “it was about the only thing we both liked. She found it racy and exciting. I used it to impress the boys, to be admitted into their inner circles.”

He chuckled.

“You and your mother didn’t have much in common?”

“No,” she shook her head, “hardly anything at all. She was a lady, I was down-to-earth, practical. I had no sense for shoes and make-up.”

“But she loved you.” His voice is like a caress, and she wonders how she’s going to live without it.

“Yes,” she says, “She never had any problem accepting me for who I am. Unlike my father, that is.”

Jane looks at her, and as usual she can’t escape those eyes, seeing everything, reaching into spots she always has wanted to stay hidden. Everything is different with him. She’s always told him she didn’t trust him. But it’s been a lie, she does, trusts him so much it makes her shiver.

“What did your dad want you to be?” he asks.

Her mind gets tangled in bitter memories for a moment. Her childhood has dissolved into pain, unsuccessful struggles and grief after her mother’s death. A cage she wanted to escape, nothing more.

“A real girl,” she sighs, ”Daddy’s little princess. He always gave me pink dresses and fake jewelry, when all I wanted was adventure books and hockey gear.”

“Hockey?” Jane drawls, “Don't hockey players wear awfully short pants?”

She slaps his chest, but he has reached his goal, she chuckles. He brushes his fingers through her long hair, his face so close to hers she can feel his breath on her skin.

“Did your father love you?” he whispers.

“I don’t know,” she shrugs, “He had all kinds of power struggles with my brothers, and much to his dismay, I didn’t take his side. I was too busy with all kinds of stuff to develop a female sparkle, and I never needed somebody to protect me, I assure you. I think he liked to beat me up because he loved to see me cry… like a real, live little girl.”

Jane’s eyes soften, and in the gloomy kitchen, he’s as beautiful as a being from a fairytale. Too perfect for this world, she thinks with a shudder.

“Did you grant him his wish, Teresa?”

She shakes her head, but her eyes feel wet, her throat dry and sore from all the uncried tears.

“No,” she says, “I learned only to cry when I was alone.”

There is a glimmer of pain in Jane’s eyes, and it’s more than compassion, it’s as if for the first time he can actually feel her anguish, as if now, he is able to sense her on a level he hasn’t reached before.

His fingertips slide over her face, her brows, her nose, her lips, her chin.

“How can anybody not see how wonderful you are?” he whispers.

Why am I not enough for you then? She wants to ask, but can stop the words. She’s not this pathetic.

She feels a pout growing on her lips, and the first tear spills. He catches it with his finger and licks it off with an expression close to reverie on his features.

She shudders, but can’t stop more tears from falling, and when the embarrassing sobbing starts, he simply grabs her and pulls her onto his lap, making her straddle his thighs, his arms wrapping around her waist.

She clutches his shoulders and cries into his pajama top, thoroughly wetting the cotton beneath her chin. It’s been an eternity since she’d cried like this, even after she had been saved from Red John’s hideout her eyes had stayed stubbornly dry. But now, she just can’t stop, helpless sobs wrecking her body, and his grip is so tight and comforting and for the first time in years, she feels nothing but safe.

When her weeping dies down, the sobs reduced to some soft sniffling, Jane starts to unbutton his shirt.

She freezes. His eyes are deep and hooded, and she understands how hard this is for him. He can use his body when there are no real feelings involved, can make it do anything he wants to, and that this is obviously different sends a strange kind of heat through her core.

His feelings are showing on his face, and it makes offering himself so hard after his years of loneliness that she can feel it herself.

She wants to stop him, doesn’t want him to do this just for her sake, so she shakes her head, but he just frames her face with his hands and presses his soft lips to hers.

“Please, Teresa,” he sighs into her mouth, “I need you. You don’t know how much.”

She trembles and gives in to his kiss, his tongue probing, insistent, his exquisite taste filling her senses easily, effortlessly. There is no second soul like his, there never can be, and she can’t let it get lost, no white flags, a fight for life or endless darkness.

Her fingers replace his at the buttons, sliding them through their holes until his chest is bared, then his stomach. The garment slides over his shoulders, he tosses it to the ground.

His skin is warm, smooth, and he groans when her lips wander down his throat, over the strong plains of his chest, finding his nipples. His breathing is sharp, urgent, showing the restlessness coursing through his body like a fever. She lifts her hips, allows his hands to slip beneath the hem of her shirt. He finds her panties and rips them of, the sound of tearing fabric like a warning bell in the night.

What she’s about to do can never be undone, and in a way, it’s the strongest statement she can give. Crossing the wild river that has always separated them. She doesn’t really know what she will find on the other side, but somehow, she’s not scared any longer, although suddenly, everything matters. Every breath. Every slide of hands and tongues. The beads of sweat forming on his forehead.

She licks them off while her hands find his waistband, tugging at it, giving him a last chance to pull back. So far, he always has.

But he doesn’t this time, lifts his hips to assist her, and she pushes his pants down, gasping when she feels his length against her core. She’s whimpering, scared, longing for him so much it is slicing through her like a knife.

He grabs her hips, stabilizes her, his eyes never leaving hers when he slowly lowers her onto him. It’s far too much as he enters her, his eyes going wide with every inch he pushes inside her tightness, and she wraps her arms around his neck, putting her forehead against his, breathing into his face as he slides deeper and deeper, not stopping before he is inside her to the hilt, so deep he seems to fill every crevice, body and soul. She is panting, her world exploding into a million supernovas, and she can read the urgency of his feelings on his face, open and vulnerable, the mask gone.

His grip tightens, holding her still, and he starts to thrust, hard and deep, long, surging strokes that make her squirm in no time, the tension coils inside her like a snake, but she wants more, deeper, and as if from great distance she watches him pick her up, rising from the bench, sitting her down onto the table in front of him.

She cradles his hips between her thighs, supporting her torso on her outstretched arms, bracing herself for him.

He picks up speed, his rhythm fast and relentless, and his eyes mirror the absolute overload, just the expression sends her over the edge once more, just for him. Her muscles clench so hard it’s almost painful, but it feels so good at the same time, she cries out, the sound loud in the silent kitchen, and she can feel him tumble, his thrusting getting erratic before he clutches her tighter and explodes.

She can feel his warmth erupt inside of her, again and again, feels his body convulse against hers, and she embraces him with arms and legs, pulling him as close as she can.

When he finds his voice after endless minutes, gasping and shaking in her arms, he whispers softly to her.

“Let’s go to bed, Teresa. I’m so, so tired.”

And she just nods, swallowing the small desperate sound that threatens to get out when he disengages himself, sliding out of her, taking the connection that is the only thing that can give her hope.

But she sees the despair in his eyes, the confusion. Everything he has believed in comes crashing down, and she can’t do anything.

So she just takes his hand and leads him down to the bedroom, covering his body with hers when he lies down, and while she listens to him falling asleep, she understands how dangerous this really is, how far the fun-loving, hopeful soul she has hoped to free with Red John’s death is truly gone.

For the first time she’s afraid that nothing will save him. That he’s already part of another world, of a dimension she can never reach.

This night, she doesn’t dream about Red John. She dreams about Jane’s battered body on the rocks down below, his blood washing into the ocean.

She wakes up shaking and sweating, but can stop the scream before it escapes.

The night is still dark, seemingly endless. And Jane is gone from their bed.


	6. Stone Heart

He’s almost his old self at breakfast, but she sees the dark rings beneath his eyes, the air of exhaustion around him. She has to make him sleep, soon. His tiredness will make everything worse, will push him over the edge that much faster.

She can’t keep her hands out of his hair, its softness like a contrast to the hard edges he’s showing, an invitation to get lost to the reality for a second. Just a whiff of touch. She tousles his curls and can almost believe that she has a chance.

“What do we do today?” she asks, smoothing her palm over his hair.

He looks up at her, his tired eyes sparkling for a change, and once again she feels too much for him, more than anyone should feel.

I love you, she thinks, but she won’t say it out loud again. Too much hurt, she doesn’t need more of that.

So she just closes her eyes and awaits the soft voice she loves so much.

“We go fishing,” he says, leaning into her touch, “I catch my own fish, you know?”

She chuckles, noticing the sadness that has crept into her voice. She’s come a long way from the hopeful start of her vacation, but then, she doesn’t really know what she expected. Nothing has ever been easy in her dealings with him.

“I never saw you as a fisherman,” she smiles.

It’s still like a little sunrise when he smiles, the gesture never loses its power, no matter how often she sees it. How is she supposed to come out of this unscathed? The answer is cruel: she isn’t. In a way this is the endgame, for her as much as for him. It’s a battle. She always seems to be fighting these days, and no matter how hard she’s trying, she never escapes it.

“It’s not a sport for me,” he answers with a shrug, “that’s fish-killing. I only catch exactly what I eat… which is one fish. Today we need two, no idea if I can manage that.”

There’s so much mischief in his eyes, he looks young and wild, and she laughs, throws her head back and lets the sound escape like a prisoner. Only a few days fighting for him, and she can’t remember happiness, normalcy. An easy turf she knows. She’s a stranger here. No home field advantage for her in this war.

They take their breakfast in silence, she almost can’t eat at all, tries to conceal the fact from him. Useless to admit a weakness now, she needs all her strength for later. Too much feeling will make him shy away. It’s the feelings that scare him the most, she saw that yesterday, when making love to her had seemed as hard for him as running twenty miles at full speed.

It’s torture to smell his body, though, the sweet mixture of shower and Eau de Cologne and clean male skin, she can’t believe how hard she has fallen for him.

Just as he has, she has always tried to hide the fact, even from herself.

But since she became a survivor, her life has changed. Life is too precious to spend it scared. Why can’t he see?

Xxxxxxxxxx

The day is cool again, not a hint of summer in the air, the sky heavy and overcast. Her small hand is the only source of warmth for him, and he clutches it like a life saver on their way over the empty harbor wall.

His fishing rod is a ridiculously simple instrument, nothing but wood and cord, but he has always managed to catch his food.

The villagers deliver vegetables to his lighthouse once a week, but if he wants to eat fish or meat, he has to buy it himself or catch it. He prefers savoring his solitude as long as he can, so fishing in the morning hours is a good option.

A sharp wind blows, and Lisbon is so small, she gets cold easily. It’s wonderful to spend time with her, they laugh, joke, he feels free and giddy. She slips under his overcoat, and he wraps his arm around her, her warm little body pressed against him.

For a moment he lets sinful images intrude, how it would be like to really woo her, give her sweet little presents which clearly show his intent. Even hockey gear, if she insists. He smiles into her hair, deeply, sadly, for he knows it’s never going to happen. This is his one glimpse of normalcy, a reminder of what life could have been like without Red John.

But truth is: although the killer is dead, he is still inside him. And Patrick Jane has died long ago, together with his family in a blood-spattered bedroom in Malibu.

But she shoos away the pain when she kisses him. He has this. Like balm on a wound that can’t heal.

They manage to catch two fishes, just enough for both of them, with much laughter and the sad, but carefree happiness of two people who know their time is limited, a precious rarity to be savored.

He suffers because he has to do this to her. But suffering is his second nature anyway.

The cold day is too valuable to make it stop, so they spent hours at the beach, throwing stones into the ocean, looking for the most beautiful seashells, straying far from their path.

It’s afternoon when they return to the lighthouse, and the silence of the building seems oppressive, instantly stifling the good mood they have established.

Jane sheds his overcoat and leads the way to the kitchen, the fishes wrapped in old newspaper.

Lisbon enters the bedroom to shower and change.

He takes an awfully long time to wash his hands, as if there were innocent blood on them. Macbeth-like. He feels hungry and ashamed, sadness spreading on his skin like a second one. He can never become clean, innocent again.

He makes a big fuss about gutting the fish, just a little show for her, he usually does this without flinching. But he manages to annoy her enough that she finally takes the knife from his hands and does the job, fast, effectively, working with utmost precision. He watches her with fascination. She’s wonderful.

“Shall I cook, too?” She asks him, her eyebrows wandering upwards.

He smiles.

“I would appreciate it.”

It’s just a ruse, he simply wants to watch her a little longer, take his fill while he still can.

She washes her hands, prepares the skillet. Puts water on for vegetables and potatoes. The gas makes a sharp little sound when she fires it up, almost like a pistol shot, it pierces the silence, makes him more aware.

Not a good thing.

His eyes follow the graceful curves of her body, and he realizes he’s dangerously close to losing control. He folds his hands on the table, but he starts stroking the smooth wood only seconds later, mesmerized by Teresa Lisbon’s lithe curves in the fading light of the early evening.

His breathing accelerates, it’s like a fever. He gets up slowly, comes up behind her. He feels her freeze, her whole body going rigid, as if in shock. He reaches around her and turns off the gas, plunging the already darkening room into more darkness.

She wears the black skirt again, and his hand slides beneath it, while his other hand splays on her flat stomach, molding her body to his.

He’s hard, she gasps, but she pushes closer, and the last of his resistance is lost.

He pulls her panties down, they slide to the floor, she spreads her legs for him when his fingers search for her wetness.

Her breath comes in flat, shallow bursts, and he finds his own match the rhythm, both of them panting with arousal now.

He knows he mustn’t lose his head, has to stay cool in order to be able to end it, but he can’t, her soft little sounds are intoxicating, making him dizzy and wanton, so hungry his whole body seems to scream for her.

He keeps one hand on her stomach, reaching between them to open his belt, his fly. He bends his knees and pushes inside her, his groan mingling with hers, and he knows they’re both lost. Will both be hurt beyond measure.

He can’t stop, his strokes are rough and urgent, fast, she braces herself on the tabletop, accepts his vicious thrusts with soft, deep moans of pleasure. His own need coils low in his stomach, ready to strike, and he closes his eyes, putting his head on her shoulder, inhaling her sweet, heady scent. She is all that’s left in his universe.

He stops holding back when he feels her body clench around him, and when he comes, the sensation sweeps him away like a flash flood, his knees shaking so hard he doesn’t know how he can still stay upright.

When he is completely drained, desperation comes, he clutches her so tight it has to hurt, but he can’t stop, wants to hold her forever, hide with her in a spot where fate can’t find them.

But he knows his decision has been made long ago, he has to let her go, right now, it hurts so much he wants to hit something, hurt himself.

He rips himself away from her by force, and when she turns to look at him, her cheeks wet with tears, he realizes he is half-mad, that his eyes are wide and wild, that he can’t almost control himself any longer.

He turns and runs out of the room, storms up the stairs, slamming the door to his little hideout on top of the building shut behind him. He starts the beacon, his nerves soothed immediately by the blinding light.

He stares out of the window for a long time, his body shaking, but his mind working with new-found clarity.

He remembers the day he has left the hospital, saying goodbye to Sophie Miller, who had done nothing but temporarily repair him to accomplish his last task in life.

He had always known that his own death had only been postponed, that there was just one thing left to do: catch Red John, take revenge. Nothing else.

The deed is done. Not by him, but done nonetheless. The killer has bled out on a cold concrete floor.

He almost regrets that he hasn’t done himself in immediately, hasn’t ended this farce back then.

But on the day in the basement, the horror fresh and raw, the humiliation of realizing who Red John was as sharp as the prick of a knife, he hadn’t been able to say goodbye to his angel.

So he had to wait for her, to share these last days with her. It was what he had to grant both of them.

He slowly straightens, steeling himself for what he knows he has to do now.

There’s no way out. There never was.

Xxxxxxxxxx

She waits for him, for the inevitable end, and she knows it. She’s not blind. It’s over now, and she can’t fight it. Her skin feels rough, as if she has been scratched by a million needles. She burns all over, and the tears leave a blazing sensation on her face.

When he finally walks into the room, it seems as if he has already left. He is distant, cool. And for the first time since she came here, he sits down opposite from her.

She braces herself.

“Where do you go from here, Lisbon?” he uses her surname, and she is not surprised.

Not much can surprise her now.

“I don’t know,” she admits, “I have to go back to Sacramento. I can’t leave the team. It’s the only real family I have left.”

Except you, she thinks. But she doesn’t say that.

He nods slowly. Methodically.

“I know.” He says.

“Just as I know,” she whispers, ”that you won’t be coming with me.”

He nods again, his lips pressed into a thin line.

Suddenly the truth is too much to bear, and she wants to stop, to hide, go anywhere life can’t hurt her anymore. She’s fed up with suffering. Just can’t take another scrap of it. But she knows: nobody’s asking her.

“Jane, please, come back with me, please. You could…you…”

She stops herself when she sees his expression, closed, guarded. He won’t listen. She retreats, swallows drily.

“Will you let me stay here?” she says softly.

She will. Disappoint her team, burn her bridges. For him.

“No.” he answers firmly.

Her world crumbles, the only thing she can do is keep an almost straight face. She looks at him and realizes that she will truly lose him. There’s nothing she can do.

“I have to leave then.” She whispers, almost inaudible, and her words sound like his death sentence to her.

“Don’t make me say goodbye, Lisbon,” he says,” I hate that. Just… leave in the morning. I won’t be here then.”

She can’t give up. Can’t. Not now.

“Jane, please, come home with me, don’t stay here on your own. Don’t you understand, there is a future, please- why can’t you see it? Do you honestly think your family would want you to give it up for them? They loved you. Why can’t you honor that?”

Pain contorts his features, and she regrets every word, his agony is slicing through her like a sword, ripping her to pieces. No, Jane. She thinks. Don’t. Don’t make me go through this. Don’t throw away the treasure you are to me.

She sounds almost selfish to her own ears, but she can’t stop. She’s fighting for life, his, hers, she almost can’t tell the difference any longer.

He leans forward, and she instantly recoils, as if he is her enemy, which he isn’t, never was. She tries to cover his hand with hers, but he pulls it away, hides it under the table.

She wants to scream. Yell at him. Fights to stay reasonable, sane.

“There isn’t a future for me, Teresa.” He presses out, “I’m burnt out, can’t you understand? This dream, this fantasy of a normal life, it was never for me. I tasted heaven with you, and I never should have. You’re not what awaits me. There are things you can’t repair, things I can never be again. You have to turn your back, Teresa. Now.”

Anger bubbles up, sharp and helpless.

“Why can’t you understand I can’t, Jane?” she shouts, “You felt this yourself once, didn’t you? Would you have turned your back?”

He calms down, but his breathing is still fast, harsh.

“You have to,” he says, his voice almost cold, “it’s not your call. Please. Don’t make this harder for both of us. And don’t make me say goodbye.”

He leaves then, and she hears the front door slam from a great distance, the emptiness of the building weighing down on her.

She wants, needs to cry, bitterly, until she flows down the drain with the flood, but she feels completely, utterly dry.

Xxxxxxxxxx

She expects him to stay away all night.

But he doesn’t, sinks into bed with her after midnight, and when he presses closer she can’t resist. He’s gentle, tender, attentive, his movements slow and thorough, and when he enters her, she knows it’s the only goodbye she will get. She tries to prolong it, tries to resist the fast peaking of her pleasure, but she can’t, he feels too good, touches her soul in a way nobody can, and she surrenders, crying out into the lonely night.

She falls asleep in his arms, although she doesn’t want to, knowing that when she wakes up, he’ll be gone. It’s the last time, the last of everything, and she can’t stop looking at him, tracing his beloved face with her fingertips.

She wakes up when dawn starts gracing the sky. And he is gone.


	7. A Rainbow's Myriad of Shades

Patrick Jane walks along the shore, sharp wind tousling his hair. The ocean is a force of rampant chaos today, the surf frightening, whipped up by the storm.

The cool waves crash over his feet, the world is a hell of wild sensations, but all he can think about is: when he returns, she will be gone. Swept from his life forever, just like the sand is swept from the beach by the never ending touch of the sea.

With her, the last good thing in his existence will leave, the last spark of hope. He has lived to see her on his doorstep. Now they’ve had their goodbyes, and he has done everything he had left to do in this life. He’s done. But it doesn’t feel liberating.

His heart is clenching painfully, a bloody wound in his chest, and he closes his eyes in despair, remembering how she has fallen asleep in his arms last night. How they have made love, knowing it would be the last time. How he has kissed her goodnight, knowing it would be their last kiss.

How her hair has been fanned out on his pillow, her face smooth and peaceful in her sleep, when he had sneaked out in the early morning hours. He knows, he will carry this picture in his heart for the rest of his life, a painful reminder of the second time he has lost love.

When he returns, she will be gone.

He so wishes that she will forget him eventually. But he knows it’s nothing but a coward’s excuse, a lie to calm his guilt, his shame. You never forget someone you love like this. Like she loves him. Like he loves her.

He makes a desperate, tortured sound, something between a sob and a groan. He’s a miserable coward. A traitor. Not worthy of the tender feelings she harbors for him. Not better than the fraud he’s grown up to be.

A huge wave crashes upon the shore and catches him by surprise, wetting his pants, his legs, the shock of the icy water triggering memories he’s used to suppress.

She has asked him: would he have turned his back on his family?

No.

He hasn’t always been this way. Yes, he has disappointed his wife, his family. But she had loved him. And he had fought to deserve her, them, the two closest to his heart, guardian angels then just as Teresa is now. He had battled the darkness inside him for Angela and Charlotte. Constantly. He hadn’t always been successful, but their love had bettered him even at the time of his biggest failures.

They’d been his greatest, most precious treasure. He would never, ever have left them, for no reason imaginable.

Would he have told them the things he has told Teresa last night, cruelly dismissing them from his life as he had her, unfeeling, cold, irresponsible- as if her feelings had nothing to do with him?

He would have done anything for Angela and Charlotte.

But he loves Teresa Lisbon just as much.

She doesn’t mean less to him.

The realization stings, hurts so deep he almost doubles over, can’t take another step.

It feels like a betrayal to his family at first, but he soon realizes it isn’t. It’s just the way it is.

He loves her, loves her so much it hurts, every time he takes a breath, his thoughts wander to her, longing searing his heart.

Why can’t he honor the feeling, give it more than mere thoughts?

Why can’t he be a haven for Teresa Lisbon, when she has always fought for him just as hard as Angela had? Why doesn’t he get up and works his hands bloody to deserve her trust, her devotion?

Be what she needs?

Her love trembles inside of him like a sail… strong enough to carry him. So why can’t he risk a new start?

Why is he still so sad, so much the feeling seems endless, like an incurable disease that just has to kill him eventually?

Why is the end everything he allows himself to see?

He closes his eyes and lets the water wash over his feet, his legs, lets himself be doused with the cleansing cold, searching inside his soul for a spark of life.

Xxxxxxxxxx

She doesn’t find him next to her when she wakes up, and she is not surprised.

She gets up with a feeling of a truly, irreparably broken heart. She can almost feel the wreckage inside of her, the flap of torn, dead tissue. She has lost him.

It feels so much harder to let go this time, now that she’s had a taste of him, their connection so much stronger, the feelings inside her blinding. All-encompassing. How can she get over something like this?

It has been easier the first time, when they’ve had their silent goodbye in Red John’s basement. There’d still been hope in her heart then.

Now, she suddenly understands that even if she returned here in a year, she most likely wouldn’t find him. He wouldn’t be here any longer, leaving an empty spot in her heart that could never be filled.

Tears spill, running down her face, her throat, dripping onto her clothes. She doesn’t stop them, doesn’t wipe them away. A part of her simply wants to follow him, end it right now. But that isn’t her. She will never choose the easy way out, and she knows it. She’s been born a fighter, knightress of the lost cause.

She packs her bags, hands trembling. Just a few belongings, she’s fast. Effective.

But when she’s done, she finds she can’t go, not now, not like this.

She climbs the stairs to the kitchen before, on an impulse, she decides to ascend higher, to the little room right on top of the building, the chamber that houses the beacon. She’s surrounded by glass, a free view all over the ocean.

She steps in front of the glass door and looks out over the angry, grey sea before she opens up and walks out into the storm, her hands grabbing the solid guardrail.

She can’t bring herself to look down, thinking what a perfect place this would be if someone decides that there’s nothing more to do, to see, to understand for him in this world. Nothing… nobody to hold him back.

She stands completely still for a long time, the ocean noisy, strong winds whipping around her head, tossing her long dark strands around like the ribbons of a toy. She gazes at the sea, tries to think of nothing at all. Can’t forget his face. It’s there all the time, just as it had been in Red John’s basement, when she had forbidden herself to dream about him.

He will always be there.

She has no idea how late it is when she finally walks back inside, but the moment she steps over the threshold, she sees the window on the far side. Somebody has scrawled a message onto the glass.

It looks as if it is written in blood. It’s not, she realizes almost immediately, but it gives her the creeps nonetheless. Her skin crawls as she reads the words.

“Angel mine,

I’m sorry. Sorry there’s not more I have to give you. I never wanted you to love me. It’s a cruel fate. I realize it’s yours. I never wanted to love you either. That’s mine. Have a good life, Teresa. There’s a bright future ahead of you, don’t throw it away for me. Believe me- I’m really not worth it. Don’t take the bad memories with you. But leave the good ones, too. Just forget me, little one. And let time heal your wounds.

I love you.

Patrick Jane.”

She stares at the message until the letters blur before her eyes, tears filling them to overflowing, wetting her already damp cheeks even further.

But it’s not sadness that flares up in the solitude of the lighthouse, surrounded by the wild storm and the roaring ocean. It’s anger. It’s ruthless determination, a resolve so deep a million giants couldn’t break it.

How can he believe that she will forget him? How dare she to leave him like this?

She won’t. Won’t go, won’t leave him to his brooding and a lonely death, surrounded by nothing but the sea and the sky.

She doesn’t care for his words, his wishes, his demands. She won’t budge. As long as he stays, she will, too. Chain herself to him if she has to.

Bite me, Patrick Jane.

I’ll stick with you, through thick and thin.

I’ll be your shadow from now on, and if you don’t like that, you can go fuck yourself.

She stomps down the stairs, her whole body quivering with pain and anger, looking into every room to make sure she doesn’t miss him. She needs to find him, now.

But when she reaches the ground floor, he’s standing in front of the door.

Her anger dissolves into a cloud of smoke when looks at his face, and love washes over her like a rampant flood.

He looks at her calmly, wearing his black overcoat. Several suitcases are scattered around him.

His face is swallowed by his usual mask of utter control, his expression calm, almost bored, Patrick Jane’s protective arrogance, as if they have planned this trip for weeks and he’s just waiting for her on an ordinary day.

But in his eyes, she reads a feeling she only knows from stories and her own heart. She’s seen it when he told her about his wife.

“There you are,” he says, “I’ve been waiting for you. A plane leaves for Sacramento in only three hours, and we have to be in Portland by then.”

She doesn’t know what to say, just stands in front of him, her lips trembling too much for speaking anyway.

He extends his hand, letting his fingertips wander over her face.

“Why do you look so sad, angel mine?” he whispers. “It’s a wonderful day and I love you with all my heart. So before we leave for this future you told me about, why don’t you come closer and kiss me?”

More tears fall then, she closes her eyes, and when his lips meet hers, the skin soft and warm and shivering against hers, she realizes that he has believed to never kiss her again, that for him, this is like a different, new life. Finally.

She opens her mouth for his tongue, feels his rough hands on her hips, pulling her closer, so close her breasts are flattened against his chest. They don’t stop before they have to come up for air, and it’s so hard to let him go, even if it’s just for a few moments.

They carry their bags and suitcases to their cars, and she just doesn’t want to part, doesn’t want to let him out of her sight, still vulnerable and raw from all the fear, the doubts, the hopelessness, still unable to understand that this isn’t the end. She guesses the feeling will accompany her for a while.

He smiles at her, but there are still tears in his eyes, and she understands how hard this is for him, how strange it has to feel to risk a future after all these years.

He has to love her very much, and the thought makes her shudder. In a good, a right way.

She smiles back, and it’s almost like the day he has found her in Red John’s basement ten months ago, covered in his enemy’s blood, dying. So much pain, so much hope. They will learn to live with both, she knows they can do it. Together.

It’s a beginning, and it’s as hard as it is beautiful.

“Promise me you’ll follow me to the airport,” she says, “and not drive anywhere I can’t find you.”

His smile deepens.

“Still so scared for me, love?” he chuckles and pulls the wedding ring from his finger. He softly places it into her palm. “Keep this. As my promise to you. That I won’t leave you, no matter what happens. I won’t be a perfect husband, Teresa. But I will try. For you.”

He kisses her once more, his lips firm and gentle at the same time. He wraps a large, warm hand around the back of her neck, holding her against him. When he breaks the kiss, she puts her lips against his throat, inhaling deeply. His scent is wonderful, the ocean, Eau de Cologne, Patrick Jane mingling into a heady fragrance.

“I’m sorry for what I said yesterday,” he whispered, “so sorry, Teresa. But I always believed my love for you has to come second, that I would never feel something as strong as I did for my family again. I was wrong. You deserve the same respect and devotion I gave them. You wouldn’t have gone, would you?”

“Never,” she answers urgently, “I was just going to find you to kick your butt for even assuming that I would leave you alone.”

He chuckles, but she sees tears forming in his eyes, as if his feelings open new floodgates inside him every second, changing everything he has believed in.

“I love you,” he breathes, ”God, how I love you…”

So much more to say, to ask, but she closes her eyes and just tastes his kiss, one of a million, she’s sure. They have a lifetime to talk, and she just savors the longing that brushes her skin when their lips part, it belongs to her, because he does.

Before he walks to his car, he lifts his hand and salutes her, the wind driving through his hair.

“Yes,” she nods, “it’s almost like the day you found me.”

“It is,” he answers, smiling, “but this time, you found me.”


End file.
